Unison of the Persecuted
by Faded Warrior
Summary: The glorifying colours were never painted properly. Because the life of the founders was never a bunch of roses, it was always bound to end in tears and bloodshed.
1. Chapter 1

**Fleeing the Fens**

The village of Stonebridge a patchwork of fields and forests, hamlets and villages dotted in the patterns of foliage and farming, the odd cow lumbering through the landscape, snacking on the corn and barley of the fields. The birds would twitter in the trees and rabbits would graze upon the lush meadows. The peace rarely punctuated by the wandering muggle down a dirt track, going to the bridge that the village was named after to pass into the land of other villages for trade.

But the bridge that had been the village's namesake for decades was gone, crumbled and washed away by the river Obfirmo, which had burst its banks for the first time in four decades. The recent rainfall had been horrendous, drowning the crops and sending the normally peaceful village into disarray. Only one person seemed to be happy with the sudden flooding of the village, she lived in her old cottage on the top of a hill over looking the village.

Cassiopeia Slytherin

She lived above the village where very few ever dared to go, cared only by her grandson who was now well into manhood, she had been there longer than anyone could ever remember, each and every person in the village being younger than her by a considerable amount. They rarely dared going near her domain, for fear they would perhaps catch the madness that riddled the woman's brain, it would surely addle their minds. 

When she turned up in the flooded streets of the village her cackles could be heard from end to end, her grandson trailing after her, trying to pull her back, whispering things unheard by the other villagers into her ear. He was a tall, dark haired man, a small beard at the tip of his chin, piercing silver eyes that were hard to distinguish their exact gaze. He was a slight man, but strong enough in build, none of them knew that he practiced magic in the home of his grandmother. They had always suspected witchcraft of the crazy old woman, but not her polite grandson, who had always gone about his business undisturbed.

Cassiopeia stumbled through the streets, a travelling cloak wrapped around her frail shoulders, her green eyes sweeping the sodden streets and inhabitants.

"Do you see Salazar?" she cried in delight as she hobbled nearer to the where the river had overflowed, all of the eyes on her, none of them able to see anything remarkable, just lots of water, filthy water. 

"Grandmother come home now," her grandson, Salazar said, trying to gently guide her form away, though she remained stubborn and determined to tell everyone what she could see.

"It is what your mother always said, don't you see Salazar?" she laughed manically, dancing around in the water that sloshed about her legs, soaking the end of her robes. "The Obfirmo has come to cleanse the land, cleanse the village of all impure, the magic has been unleashed yet again Salazar, can you see?"

"Did she say magic!" grunted a local farmer, carrying his roughly hewn tools across his broad shoulders. "This is witchcraft, that woman has ruined our crops, she's a witch, it's what we always feared!" He raised his spade into the air, crying to the village, shouts of witchcraft and damnation, their voice joined with him as they advanced on the old woman and her grandson.

"Leave her alone!" Salazar shouted at the hoard, each and every one of them wielding something large and bulky. "Leave her alone, this is madness!" his voice had raised to a crescendo of anger as they advanced on his grandmother, who was still cackling at the waters of the Obfirmo. His silver eyes flashed with danger as a few of the villagers broke into a run, attacking Cassiopeia with their weapons.

"LEAVE HER BE!" he roared, lifting his hands to jump in and save his grandmother, a thin stick was produced from the folds of his cloak and he brandished it at the attacking villagers, who were stuck in a brawl that was highly undignified over such a frail old woman. Injuries on all of them as the old witch hexed and cursed under the onslaught.

Salazar pushed his way through the crowd, dodging the sticks, the blades and spades, hexing those he could and pushing the others out of the way with quite some difficulty. Before soon the villagers were all so hexed only a few remained hacking at the remains of the old woman, who lay in a crumpled heap upon the floor. By now the rest of the village had heard the shouting and had come to watch the spectacle.

A whistle of a passing bird broke the painful silence that hung over the street as the man saw the broken form of his grandmother, a look of shock on his face at her slumped body amongst the broken wood and blades of different length.

"I told you to leave her alone," he said quietly, his back to the villagers, all of them could hear him. His icy, silver eyes watched the water gently lap at the hem of his cloak.

"Look what you've done," he whispered, watching the silvery waters lapping to and fro, cleansing the dirt beneath his feet and washing it into the streets. The Obfirmo has come to cleanse the land, the magic has been unleashed. Salazar studied the water carefully, its purpose to cleanse the land.

"Cleanse the land of you, MURDERERS!" 

He screamed the last word to the sky, his wand securely in his hand as they both rose into the air, the water rising behind him summoned by his tumult of furious magic to be unleashed, as though the wand were a baton controlling the elements. A giant sloshing mass rising feet higher behind him into a muddy wall of water, the reflections dancing off of his silvery eyes that burned with malice as he turned to face his grandmother's tormentors.

The villagers stood rooted to the spot, terrified beyond all measure as a single being managed to summon upon the water of their river that had so dutifully cared for them for so long.

"Cleanse the land, like you were destined to do," Salazar cried in a theatrical and eerie voice, as he threw forward his outstretched arms, releasing the wall of water that had stood sentinel behind him. 

The water gushed down the dank streets that had been sodden for a week already, the villagers screamed as the wall of water fell upon them like some terrifying monster, threatening to engulf them and wash them away to some unknown land. Salazar laughed as it submerged each and every one of the crowd in front f him as the watchers ran back to their homes, smaller waves tailing them all of the way, silver fish darted in and out of the water. Another flick of his wand and they all had poisonous teeth, infected with some deadly disease that nipped amongst the ankles of every being in the village. 

As the swell of the ebbing water fell, travelling slower throughout the village some of the other villagers that had not taken the full brunt of the savage cascading torrent, advanced upon Salazar, swords drawn. Mutters about sorcery and damnation buzzed through their numbers as they brandished their weapons somewhat nervously, a couple of them led horses and others were fetching back up.

All against one man.

"What do you want of us sorcerer?" asked one of the men, he was bearded and held a long sword, his clothes were sopping and his legs bled profusely, from the bites of the fish.

"I have no need of you murderers, what could I possibly want of such people," drawled Salazar scathingly, knowing full well that many if not all of the people before him would be dead by nightfall, from the disease ridden waters.

"Kill him!" shouted some old woman from the back of the mob, jumping up and down brandishing a gnarled stick. "He and his witch friend have plagued our land, kill him!"

The mob needed no reasoning, in their eyes it was the fault of the man before them that they had no crops, no livelihood and now no village, whilst what they had left was being washed down the lane. They charged at Salazar screaming, as they had done with his grandmother who was a senile old witch. Unluckily for them Salazar was not old, or senile, he had a wand in his hand and had just discovered the extent of his powers, power to control the elements was no mean feat.

He battled through the crowd of villagers whom he had previously lived peacefully side by side, as blades and sticks descended upon his tall, slim form he brandished his wand like a sword, sweeping motions departing the crowds, before jabbing at them with hexes. Many ran back, angry boils spurting onto their faces and burns along their arms.

Salazar managed to battle his way through the crowd of fifty strong, to one of the grey stallions that had been led here by one of the fray, with a swift jump he landed in its back and kicked it hard in the side. The horse reared on its hind legs, front hooves flailing dangerously as Salazar took the reigns firmly in his hands, pulling the horse around to face the running water of the Obfirmo.

The horse's gigantic form, cleaved through the villagers with ease, knocking many aside with its muscular and powerful legs, its head waving to and fro as it galloped towards the river. Salazar leant into the horse as he braced himself for the jump which the horse almost failed to accomplish; its hind legs, splashing into the raging waters, sending it stumbling from the cascading white waters.

"Whooooah," yelled Salazar as the horse made to gallop off towards the hillside, where there was green grass aplenty.

The horse halted obediently as Salazar dismounted smoothly, his worn boots sinking into the slightly muddy ground. He slapped the stallions flank as a sign for it to go, which it did happily, shooting off up the hillside before settling down to graze against the backdrop of the setting sun.

Salazar stood upon the grassy bank of the riverside and watched the village that had once been his home. The bells of the old Church tolled out loud and fast, its panic toll. Children could be heard crying, protesting as they were put to bed by their weary mothers. The sun was just finishing its descent when Salazar sat and began his watch over the village, his cool grey eyes surveying each and every building in turn. The pub was quiet and empty, some barrels outside just left to sit. Gradually each and every light from the small thatched houses were snuffed out.

The next morning, only three houses were once more illuminated.

Salazar's grey eyes searched the streets where his grandmother had died in battle against the angry muggles, where they had mercilessly attacked him, which he retorted with surprising skill and brutality. The road was stained with blood from his terrible deed, mixing with the mud and filth of the village that had been washed there by the Obfirmo. As he rose from the grassy bank, he summoned upon the power of the water once more, sending it down the street, washing away the mud and the blood, before leaving it clean.

He stepped down to the bank, having spotted something glittering and shiny, like a magpie he was drawn towards its glow. A small silver, perfectly oval deposit had been left on the banks of the swelling water. Pleased with his findings Salazar pocketed it before walking back to his vantage point, turning back towards the now clean streets.

"Mudblood," he murmured before setting off up the hill, calling upon the grey stallion and galloping across the countryside, in search of a new beginning.


	2. Chapter 2

The landscape of Devon is that of beautiful rolling countryside, the fields and moors scattered with wildflowers and boulders which perched atop of the crest of the hills which rolled across the land like monstrous waves, carrying the grasses ad flowers along in its flow. The sky was most often a clear blue while birds such as finches and larks danced about the sky, their wings reaching out to the rays of the sun which gazed down upon a beaten track.

Cheering and the dulcet tones of many men could be heard as they rode in rows of five or six along the beaten track, fresh from the victory of battle that ravaged their lands from plunderers and marauders. Their chest plates glinted in the evening sun and their armour creaked with the steady rocking of the mighty stallions, their weary hooves finally sensing familiar land that they could call home. It had been an overwhelming victory for the town and one that many men felt they owed to one man in particular, Godric Gryffindor.

He was the swordsman of the town; often teaching the young ones how to yield their weapon with deadly accuracy and skills, it was he who would be called to lead a battalion of men to a victory yet at this battle he had really earned his reputation. Faced with larger crowds it was his quick thinking and what many believed an amazing stroke of luck that got him and his men from a peril that should really have resulted in the death of many, what they didn't know was that a branch of enchanted wood lay under his travelling cloak and it had aided them all into victory and one of the toughest reputations in England. Very few people ever challenged the town, when they did they brought as many people as they could possibly muster, often outnumbering the town two to one.

So they marched along the beaten track, their banner raised high and trumpets sounded as the great Godric Gryffindor marched his men home.

Later that night the local pub was bursting at the seams from the news of their victory, pint after pint was pushed in front of Godric as he recounted again and again his remarkable defeat, with every new pint came a more miraculous story as the pub cheered and laughed along with him. Many backs were clapped and the village pushed and shoved to hear the story from the words of what they thought was a mighty warrior, his sword tucked into his belt at his side as it always had done.

Drink after drink was guzzled by Godric, his face getting redder and redder as pint after pint was downed, his voice booming louder and louder as he got ever dizzier. After re-telling his story for what must have been the hundredth time he pulled his wand from his robes, brandishing it before him, bellowing uproariously.

"AND THEN I CURSED 'IM! LIKE THA' AN' THA'" he roared, poking the nearest bloke to him when his clothes caught light.

Everyone in the pub silenced, their eyes on Godric who was busy poking everything with his wand and consequently setting it alight, they edged away slightly quite unable to take in what their war hero was doing as he looked at the all with glee upon his face. "Do you know what I did to him then?" he asked looking quite out of his mind. Nobody answered, it seemed that every individual was trying to find the words to say but failing as the bloke next to Godric desperately tried to put himself out. "I DID THIS!" Godric bellowed. "STUPEFY!"

The man on fire fell to the floor with a resounding thud which sent up a little dust cloud, some of the flame extinguished yet he remained smouldering quite still upon the floor. The pub goers, however drunk were now looking at Godric in terror, starting to whisper between themselves. The sulky knights that had been sitting in the corner feeling under appreciated were toying with their sword hilts, tense and alert. 

"WHA?" asked Godric quite dumbfounded and completely drunk out of his mind, swaying dangerously towards the crowd, some of which were backing towards the door. "Wha? You never seen magic before?" Godric asked with a goofy smile.

It was what everyone in the room had been silently waiting to confirm most of them had doubts and put it to their drinking but it had come from the man's mouth, many of them ran from the pub yelling at the top of their voices alerting the whole town to the presence of magic. Others squared up to the man who had just saved them all from a terrible defeat while the knights drew their swords and advanced upon the drunken wizard who was armed with both a sword and a wand quite unaware of having given away his secret to the whole town. The landlord hastily retreated into a back room away from the fight that was sure to come; many of the stragglers did the same, hiding behind anywhere that they could.

It was twelve against one, nine soldiers and three town folk, one of them quite as drunk as Godric himself. Their weaponry was still dirtied and bloodied from battle, their wounds still causing them pain as they advanced upon Godric who seemed to have realised a little of what they intended, there was a hint of fear in his eyes as he stumbled back away from the drawn blades before realising that he had one too. Drawing it from its sheath he plunged into the group of men intent on attack, lunging and parrying as his blade sought to defend him while his wand sought to disarm them or stun. Jets of light shot about the pub from the end of hi wand, as he cast all manner of spells to defend himself. Metal clanged against metal as they fought against each other for the first time, one soldier lay stunned upon the floor, and another had lost his sword. A stray stunning spell smashed a great casket of water, soaking them all as they slipped across the flood, the deluge brought Godric back to some of his senses and he fought harder and harder, trying to head towards the door.

Two of the soldiers worked together, trying their best to push him back, back against one of the corners as the great wizards sought desperately to escape without killing them. They managed to back him up against one of the structural beams where they were aided by some of the others who had not been claimed by a stunning spell. It was like some great, bloody dance as they all sought to avoid one another. Godric, now somewhat aware of his situation took a great lunge at one of the knights with his sword, swinging about so as to avoid another, the blade came in contact with the structural beam. With an almighty creak it started to splinter as Godric tried frantically to pull the blade free as the others sunk into his flesh. The sound of splintering wood filled his ears as the blade came free and the beam snapped in the middle, in an almighty deluge of dust, wood and rubble the ceiling collapsed, bringing in most of the building with it.

Coughing and spluttering Godric pushed an overhead beam off of himself with an almighty heave, battered and bruised he was dazed and confused. Throwing back his head and shaking himself slightly into his senses as the screams of the locals reverberated through his head. He heaved himself from the debris, not even sure of what he was doing but knowing that he had to run, that those yells did not mean anything good.

So Godric Gryffindor ran, his sword broken in the rubble of the pub, his wand still tightly clenched in his hand as his robes billowed out behind him, melting into the darkness, screams of horror ringing in his ears.


	3. Chapter 3

Convent Closure

The snow fell thick upon the ground, a hard frost having solidified the ground the previous night. The sky was a hue of the lightest blue; the world looked colourless apart from the odd rabbit that darted between the bushes of the forest, leaving little trails in its wake. Icicles hung like Christmas decorations off branches that only just supported a good inch of snow upon them. The sun barely managed to poke through the snow clouds above marking the fact that the weather wasn't over yet.

However beautiful the snow was, crystallising the woodland, it was still a time that all nuns of St Mary's convent dreaded. Every year a trail of the sick, the starving and the wounded would trawl out to their convent seeking sanctuary and a mouthful of food from the kindly sisters. In a time plagued with war, winters were dreaded as all of the money and the food went to the mouths of the wealthy. Men would come home from their battles sporting injuries that had never been protected properly, sometimes bringing disease with them. Pregnant women would occasionally stumble to them from miles away in search of some place where she may deliver her baby, often enough it was too late to save mother or child.

Helga Hufflepuff was one of the Sisters of St Mary, her kind heart and knowledge of nourishing foods and ways to work with herbs was second to none, many of the sisters looked up to her and aspired to her talents yet very few ever came close to the knowledge that she had gained with her many years of experience. She was a young woman yet had been left at the convent by her ill grandmother one eve when she was just a child; they later found the old woman dead in the woods.

So the sisters had taken Helga in and raised her to be a nun like themselves, they had no idea of her past and she was too young to remember but when she was old enough they started teaching her the healing properties of herbs and their religious ways. Before long she had started looking into herbs and foods by herself, often accomplishing things that the sisters often thought impossible or too testing to experiment with, the girl was a natural. It was thought that she was just gifted in the art of healing, they never saw it as a sign of witchcraft.

What they didn't know was what else Helga was learning when she went off to the woods to gather the herbs and berries that only she knew of. She had met a witch when she was just eleven, a friend of her grandmothers who presented her with a wand made of ash and showed her how to start with magic. Helga had been disbelieving of her powers but swore not to tell a soul, even the nuns who rarely ever kept secrets from one another. She often went in search of the mysterious woman to learn more of the skills that she could harness through her new found skill; it even helped her to brew concoctions that wowed the sisters further than ever before. Her interest in religion diminished more and more as her knowledge of magic gave her a new view of things and learnt that any whisper of witchcraft would mean she could burn at the stake.

She was a great asset to the convent and none of the nuns ever believed her as nothing more than a gift, she was too young to be allowed to heal the sick but they often called upon her help to create balms and other solutions.

Helga was off on a search for the last berries of the year as the sisters struggled with the incoming hoards of starving people, each and every morning at least another twenty would come, swelling the ranks of the hungry mouths that the sisters did not have the heart to turn away. Every morning there was another couple of dead to dig a grave for yet the sisters still had faith, praying at every possible moment for some more warmth and food, even Helga found herself praying properly when she had part of a chance. If she put her mind to it she could probably heal all of the injured and warm all of the freezing villagers, save all of the mothers and babies, but she knew what could possibly happen to her.

Her soft shoes were soaked in the snow as she picked her way back through the forest paths, she had a large basket of holly leaves tucked under one arm, she would be able to make a thin broth from the leaves and feed lots of people but it had very little nutrition. Her blonde, curly hair hung slightly limp around her face as she huffed and puffed back to the convent. 

When she finally reached the convent it seemed that the number of ill had doubled, they all huddled together under thin blankets propped up on thin bows, a single weak fire burned in the middle of the clearing while the people able to walk stumbled around, mingling with the nuns and trying to help the injured.

"Sister Helga," gasped Sister Emma, grabbing hold if Helga's arm. "Mother Viola needs to speak to you, she's in the infirmary." She rushed off and joined Sister Veronica attending to the many sick and injured as Helga hurried to the infirmary.

Mother Viola was bustling around the infirmary which had been housing the oldest and the most ill of their patients, she carried bottles and bundles of herbs in her plump arms, bustling between the beds looking rather flustered. In the corner stood a single peasant who seemed well enough but rather restless at doing nothing. Mother Viola looked up from a moaning old woman and bustled over to Helga, dropping her bundles and bottles on a nearby table.

"There is a riot down at the town," she gasped not mincing her words; she seemed ready to fall down in a faint herself. "I don't really know what exactly has happened but they are burning down buildings and the food stocks. We're going to go down and try to stop it, they may listen to us, we are people of the Church..."

Before she had finished Helga butted in. "Surely there is someone else there who can control the crowds, people are desperate, they may not listen to you, people will turn against the Church in times of desperation. You may be added to the burning, Sister we can't go."

Mother Viola turned and had a quick look at the man standing irately in the corner and the ill in their beds. "We have to," she replied weakly turning back to Helga. "Look at these people, if the stocks at the town are burnt and their homes ruined what more will they have when they are well? How many more people will stumble upon our clearing? The town's people do have respect for us and if we join the pile of the burning, we were only doing our duty and trying to help. Besides we cannot support aid for more people, our stocks are low for this time of year and Christmas has yet to come upon us." She bowed her head slightly, her hands wringing together. "But naturally someone has to stay and look after everyone."

"Of course," nodded Helga knowing that she wasn't or given the responsibility to look after the many ill on her own because she had never been fully one of their number.

"And it has to be you," Mother Viola continued. "You have always proven yourself to be a perfect herbwife and your knowledge of healing, poultices and balms are second to none. I am sure that you can manage here on your own for a day at the most."

Helga looked awestruck at Mother Viola's proposition but did not question, bowing her head to shows that she would do as she was told without question. Mother Viola also bowed low in return and bustled off to fetch the other sisters, the man in the corner followed her out, he presumably let the Sisters know the news. Helga watched them leave before glancing around the infirmary, she knew of the lengths that her talents would stretch, she had the skill to heal each and every one of them without magic, but she needed more man power to do so, they all deteriorated as she tended to someone else and it would simply be a fruitless battle.

She whisked herself out into the clearing, fiddling with her habit nervously as she weighed up her options; Mother Viola was sitting astride the old pony, the other sisters already taking to the beaten track that would lead them to the village. Mother Viola raised her hand to her head in blessing as did Helga before the kindly nun steered her steed onto the path, quickly catching up with and overtaking the sisters on their march to the village.

Helga went about her task as best as she could, her arms full of ointments, herbs, poultices, medicines, bandages and all other manner of tricks of the trade. It seemed that every time she sorted out the most life threatening problem another one came trundling along worse than the last. She was just glad that she didn't have to dig a grave just yet. She managed to set up a fire large enough to mount a large cooking pot out in the clearing, they usually cooked in the kitchens as was natural but she hoped that the warmth from the fire and the warm smell of some soup would put some more life into the emaciated forms outside. Her eyes sought out the sky, thick with grey clouds that indicated the almost imminent arrival of snow, once more she found herself praying for the white stuff to disappear.

By midday Helga was desperately running around the convent trying to keep up with the many hungry mouths and desperately ill peasants. As she went out into the clearing to clear up from luncheon the heavens dispelled the white snow upon the countryside, falling thick and fast. The cries of the starving and the freezing rent through the halls of the convent, wails of young children could be heard reverberating off of the tress in the clearing as they called for food and warmth. Helga's desperation was reaching a peak, her hair falling out of her wimple as she ran around erecting shelters of all shapes and sizes, made of old rags, tablecloths even old habits were draped across poles around the clearing, the old and the very young crowded in the middle. Then her situation worsened with the harsh bellows of a woman as she entered the clearing, her face as red as a beetroot, her stomach huge with child.

"Merlin's beard," gasped Helga rushing to the woman, supporting her into the convent, determined that a babe was not going to come into the world in a snow covered clearing, it would die for sure. She was instead led into the only empty room in the whole convent, the abbess's personal quarters.

The birth was long and arduous, a lot of blood being lost and a lot of screaming filling Helga's ears as the woman struggled to bring her baby forth. She had very little experience with birth, being more experienced in the art of cleaning up the mess afterwards, leaving the other, more experienced nuns to do the dirty work. Yet she struggle onwards, with only her own skill and a few herbs that she had been carrying around with her all day. The screams rent through the air as Helga quickly started to panic, she knew that if she was allowed to use her magic in her work then they would all be warm, she could stretch the food further and be able to heal all of their ailments and injuries, not to mention saving the babe that was struggling it's way into life at that very moment.

"Forgive me," she whispered more to herself than to the bellowing being before her, her hand went to the wand tucked away in her habit, she was lucky for it to never have been found for what it was, there was a few times that she had nearly lost it, being mistaken as a twig. It was a short wand, made of ash with a unicorn hair core, provided by the mysterious witch that she had met so long ago.

She set to work around the convent, using her magic to help deliver the baby and clean up the mother, then working her way through the halls. Tending to the sick and the injured, a few of them needed their memories modified, but many of them were so delirious and feverish that she could leave them be. She went to the store cupboards and concocted a thin form of soup that would give each and everyone of the peasants a full and nourished stomach. She went out into the clearing, using her wand like a baton to erect sturdier structures over there heads, before warming the area with a spell she had learnt just a month before. She charmed the fire to keep burning until it was put out properly, before going about modifying the memories of all of those present.

She completed her work in record time, the many mouths at the convent tucking away into the food that was available to them as she returned to the abbess' room where the woman lay exhausted, her face white with loss of blood. Helga knew how to make her well, but it required a potion, that was not completely fool proof, she only knew the most basic of spells, not anything that could save her; however she tried as hard as she could.

She sat on the floor of the room for a good half hour, mopping down the woman and tending to her every need with a helping hand from magic. Her eyes were gentle and calming as she went silently about her work, the baby bawling wrapped in a bundle beside the mother. She was so absorbed in her work that she never noticed the footsteps working their way down the corridor towards her, whispers asking her name down the halls, not wanting to wake the potion induced patients. 

"Sister Helga?"

Helga jumped around alarmed, consequently spilling icy cold water all over the woman who in turn managed to reach yet another, even higher pitch.

"Sister Emma," gasped Helga hurriedly, stowing her wand away within her habit in a messy flurry of movement. "I ... they," her arms flailed furiously as she desperately tried to conjure up an excuse that would allow her to be pointing a wand at a shaking woman and muttering some incantation only known to her, plus the fact that everybody in the convent who was ill was suddenly better and not an injury lay unattended to. All of a sudden her efforts seemed stupid, something that would only get her into trouble.

"I saw it," said Sister Emma, stepping into the abbess's room with uncertainty, her eyes resting warily upon Helga's habit. "I never believed in witchcraft, particularly from one of the convent," her voice was shaking terribly as though she was struggling in coming to terms with it all. "If the abbess..." her voice trailed off, as though she wasn't sure about what she was trying to say.

"You don't understand," gasped Helga desperately, getting to her feet and bowing low to Sister Emma. "I used it for good, I have tended to everyone, many shall be out of your hair tomorrow good sister. I... I just helped," her voice was equally confused, cracking ever so slightly as she struggled to find the words that would be of no use to her.

Their attention was distracted as a convulsive moment from the woman behind Helga attracted their attention. Helga drew her wand but Sister Emma grabbed it and flung it into the corridor. "We cannot play the part of God," she said harshly. "It is purely his decision whether she lives or dies, she shall be punished for your witchcraft, we shall try and save her through our own methods, they will suffice." She stooped down next to the woman as did Helga, both of them unsure of what exactly was the matter, she had lost too much blood that was apparent, it seemed that the icy water had delivered some great shock to a system that was weakened by the harshness of birth. They battled desperately to gain control of her temperature and stop the convulsive shaking that consumed her body. Helga knew of spells that would help them but adhered to Sister Emma's wishes, not wanting to get into a greater mess than she was already in.

Their battle was long and fruitless, the woman died, her babe crying pitifully in the corner at the sounds of distress. The two Sisters slumped their shoulders as they lost their fight and lost the woman, Helga hung her head as she felt the scorching gaze of Sister Emma who was handling the events rather strangely, Helga hadn't even asked why she had returned alone. She did not question but stared sadly at he dead woman slumped on the floor of the abbess's room, her hands sought out hers to place them in a cross over her heart as they always did. Small spots of blood were patterned across the hand, intrigued Helga glanced quickly across the arms and face of the woman, moles on her arm also showed such tell tale signs of being tested for witchcraft.

"You must go," Helga looked up to see the other Sister looking at her sincerely. "You will be found out and you will be burnt at the stake," her eyes were wide and fearful.

Most people considered witches would be hurled into the local duck pond, being a nun she would be sentenced to the stake; the other Sisters would also be suspected and could be subjected to the same fate. Helga nodded in understanding, standing up yet not entirely wishing to go, she had no life outside of the convent, it had been her home ever since she could remember, she had no where to go and nothing to do. "What will you tell the Sisters?" she asked, unused to the kindly Sisters frosty demeanour. "I will tell them that you fled in disgrace when this woman died under your care," she said calmly and quietly. "You are lucky that I do not turn you in, but you have looked after us and our visitors well over the years, I can at least cover for you as you flee. But I warn you this convent is closed to you." The words were chilling and final as Helga stumbled towards the door, picking up her wand and stowing it discreetly away.

She was about to turn her back and run down the convent corridor when Sister Emma came up behind her, carrying the young one. "You must take her," she said gravely, pushing the young one into Helga's arms. "It is no longer fitting that she stays here, I saw the marks on the hands. The Sisters would not agree with such a child staying with us, we cannot look after her anyway."

There seemed to be at least some understanding on Sister Emma's behalf at that moment, it only asserted her mind to the presence of magic in the world. She had a forced look upon her face, as though she was making a hard or harsh decision that she didn't think completely right, or she could simply be thinking or a more complex cover story for the fleeing Helga. She followed Helga through the corridors hurriedly, her steps quick and shuffled as they passed the infirmary and then out into the clearing where the ground was heavy with snow. Helga turned to the good Sister and bowed low once again, when she rose her head was still in a bow of respect.

"Thank you Sister Emma," 

"Just leave this place Helga."

Helga turned her head obediently; she could feel the scorching gaze of the Sister as she left the clearing, mixed with the gaze of all those that she had healed then altered the memory of. The babe cried in her arms as she disappeared into the undergrowth, just as the rest of the good Sisters arrived. Mother Viola led the procession on the back of a dappled horse, they had all returned pretty much unscathed. Sister Emma greeted the procession and helped some of the older nuns back into the convent where they could get some rest and respite from the cold snow that lay at their feet.

wimple the headdress of a nun


	4. Chapter 4

The Scottish woodlands lay still and silent, not a breath of wind or movement of creature's paw disturbed the peace and stillness of the tranquil setting. The firs and pines scraped higher and higher into the grey sky. The forest floor was covered with brambles and ferns, their fronds easily disturbed by passers-by and roaming deer. Her feet barely touched the fronds of the ferns as she trod carefully through the undergrowth, her long black hair rippled majestically down her back, her deep blue cloak swirled hypnotically as she made her way slowly through the forest, to her sanctuary.

She was a daughter of a nobleman; he also had six sons, each and every one of them interested in their warfare. Her mother had died not long after her own birth, making her the youngest of the many siblings, with only an age difference between one to the other. Her father had been delighted to have six sons, each of which could be trained for war against whoever decided to invade his lands. While he and his men trained up her brothers Rowena Ravenclaw was free to spend her time doing what she loved best, learning. She would spend many hours in a quiet secluded place where she could escape with any book that she could find. None of her family had ever been big readers but the past owners of their vast house had obviously been just as keen on knowledge. There were books on literature, plants, creatures, fighting techniques, religion, myths and legends, astronomy, astrology, history, geography, mathematics, Rowena's childhood favourites were the architecture books, which were few and far between. She would sit for hours and hours studying the different diagrams and illustrations of the many aspects of buildings, forming plans in her head for little outbuildings and such like. As she grew older and wiser she delved more into the other books, absorbing every ounce of knowledge that she could, it kept her out of the way, a couple of times she disappeared for days on end and no-one ever noticed. It wasn't that her father never loved her, he simply found his sons a lot more engaging, he had never managed to look her straight in the eye anyway, she resembled her mother in all but her hair colour.

She was going to the glade again, it was close to the forests of her father, but beyond their hunting grounds, she had been running away from her home fairly often of late, her father had once again insisted that she were to be wed, now that she was nearing her twenty-fifth birthday. He said that it was unacceptable for a woman of that age to be unmarried; it didn't make him look good and made her look even worse. She did not care for it, she did not want marriage, not when she knew that she was bound for somewhere else, greater things that she was sure would come to her in time. For she knew that she had great powers, something that she had never managed to explain to herself fully yet something she felt that she should keep quiet, if her father did not agree to her remaining unmarried, then her certainly would not react well to the strange things that had been happening around her since she was about eight years old.

Her immediate response when she realised it wasn't a fluke was to consult her books, they provided little help at all, the only such recounts of similar activities being by amazing magical folk in fairy stories. She had been brought up to fear witchcraft, for witches were to be thought as followers of the Devil, her powers could not be that. But as she had grown older and her power remaining unharnessed fully, her outbursts whilst becoming less frequent became more powerful, particularly when she hit an emotional high or low. It was as though something was trying to burst out of her and escape, yet she could not harness it and control it, if she restrained it, then the power overwhelmed her and caused some terrible things to happen. There was one time when a mail carrier of her father's brought news of wedding plans for her to approve, the fact that the carrier fell from the window to his death at the same time she grew angry, seemed too coincidental to overlook. Needless to say the marriage never took place and any plans to find her a groom were put off for a good year, it was seen as a bad omen, one in which they never saw the deeper reasoning in. She was lucky that she was never accused of murder.

So her glade was her place of peace, it provided respite from what she had to deal with at home, however small or simply tedious it happened to be at the time. It was a beautiful place, a small river trickled through the natural clearing and on the rare occasion she would be met with a couple of red deer taking a drink. A large flat rock sat beneath a giant horse chestnut tree as though someone had placed it there purely for her use. The ground was covered in small, delicate flowers and grass, the surrounding area predominantly fir and pine trees, with a dotting of other great giants such as the oak and the elm. Small fish darted about in the river like shining silver arrowheads, an otter's den just a little further upstream. At the entrance to the glade was a large weeping willow, spreading it's great gnarled limbs far across the glade and into the trees, the wispy tendrilled leaves grazing against the other plants before tickling the water's surface with every gust of wind.

She always travelled by foot, many people presumed that those who spent a lot of time in the forest were good at climbing through the trees or slipping discreetly through the undergrowth. Rowena had a good and proper upbringing and despite being all alone she walked with poise and dignity, years of her walks training her feet to step silently across the forest debris that constantly threatened to scare off the wildlife.

She bowed her head under the swaying boughs of the willow tree to be met with a sight unheard of in that neck of the woods. A plump, rosy cheeked young woman holding a little babe, making sparks fly from the end of a piece of wood.

Rowena was shocked to find someone in her glade that she thought lay undiscovered but to herself and the wildlife, but it was too late for her to back away and return later, she had already been spotted by the tired looking woman, a look of fear upon her face. "I hope I'm not trespassing," she said quietly to Rowena looking fearful, rocking the babe back and forth in her arms. "It's been a long couple of months." Rowena's mouth fell open in shock; she had been travelling for a couple of months? She must have started off at the end of the winter at that rate, why head so far North into the brunt of the cold? She stepped further into the clearing eyeing the babe nervously, but even more so the wand.

"You are on my fathers land," she replied calmly and slowly. "But don't worry; it's only me that ever comes here. I don't think that they come this way very often." She looked at the wand, her blue eyes taking in every intricate detail. "You're a woman of witchcraft."

"That I am," answered Helga, adjusting the worn cloth that wrapped up the babe. "Your father going to have me burnt at the stake for it?" There was suddenly a fire in her that Rowena did not see at first in her welcoming face, one that showed signs of slight malnourishment. "I didn't choose to be a witch you know, I was born one. I've lost everything that I had because of it, thrown from my family, then later on the place that I learnt to call home. And I never chose this." Her final sentence was strained, aggravated.

"I know," whispered Rowena stepping nearer to Helga. "But you have the babe."

"How do you know?" retorted Helga, fighting to maintain a strong voice, though it wavered with uncertainty. "You are the daughter of a wealthy landowner, your house or should I say manner is probably full to the brim with servants. I suppose that you don't have to bother with the poor, the weak and the ill. Anyhow, this babe is not mine, her mother died back at the convent before I left."

Rowena sat on the grass before Helga, pulling her fine robes beneath her to protect her legs and feet from the wet ground. "If she was born in a convent, then surely she could have stayed with the sisters."

"Not this little one," replied Helga. "I saw her mother's hands, they were marked by the signs of a woman destined for the duck pond, and how she escaped I shall never know. I feel that perhaps this little one will be a witch like me. Perhaps I should have left her in the woods to perish."

Rowena simply watched Helga for a moment, struggling with the resentment of her situation. Many women were thrown into rivers, lakes and ponds for witchcraft. Very few of them were ever for a good cause. They may have had a wart, or a peculiar skill, or perhaps even a mole on their hand marked them as evil, a witch, someone to be feared and destroyed. Very few real witches were ever caught, unless in the act of proper witchcraft, they were eventually killed by one way or another. Rowena knew of this through her reading, though very little of it happened in the land. Her gaze had not faltered from Helga. "How do you know that you are a witch?"

"Strange things happen," sighed Helga with the air of someone who had told the tale too many times, even having never told it in her life. "Strange things that are considered impossible, too difficult to explain yet had most definitely happened. Things that surprise and scare those around you, often enough they scare even yourself. It generally happens in times of peak emotions: frustration, grief, hatred. You cannot stop it, it just happens really." She was looking back at Rowena properly now. "Do you know anyone who has ever done such things?"

Rowena nodded gravely, her mind reeling with images of the past, as though it were being replayed to her before her very eyes, each image another shred of proof, many of them had happened in that very glade.

She was six years old; her brother Adam had just received his first bow and quiver of arrows for his birthday, for in two years time he would go into full training of combat. She was out in the grounds, looking at the flowers. He was not far off, with his new weapon, Connor and Matthew had been teaching him earlier and he wished to practice. As the afternoon drew on his range got broader and broader, his eye better, he was able to actually pick out a target and on the odd occasion manage to hit it. So he chased her. Rowena shut her eyes as the memory consumed her, blocking out the glade as his taunts filled her ears, chasing, chasing, chasing through the grounds. He had his bow drawn and a playful laugh about his face that did not fully understand the possible consequences of his actions, he was shouting and she was screaming, pleading. The sudden whoosh of a bow leaving the drawstring sounded and a painful scream echoed throughout the trees as it made its mark on Rowena's arm. She fell to the ground, her arm clutching at the arrow, consumed in pain and hatred for her slightly elder brother. Then suddenly as he neared, still laughing, the arrow reversed from her arm, the wound healing in an instant and it flew towards the boy whom had originally set it off. It sunk into his right cheek, as blood splattered the ground...

Rowena looked up at Helga, after reliving just one of the many strange memories that shrouded her twenty-four years of life. "Me."

The single word seemed out of place, as though the question that had originally been asked was long gone, spoken a thousand or more years ago, yet the stunning conclusion that had been nagging at the back of her mind was brought back to the foreground. She has pushed it further and further back, but actually seeing the wand, seeing the slight trail of gold sparks it left in its wake. It made her see that it was real, and that perhaps was what she had been waiting to happen for so long. She knew that she was destined for greater things than wife and mother. Perhaps it had finally come to her, in the form of the young witch and babe.

"May I have a look at your wand?" she asked, stretching out her hand eagerly. "And apologies for my rudeness, but I am Rowena Ravenclaw. Although the surname you may already have known through some fault of my fathers."

"Helga Hufflepuff," nodded Helga, handing over her wand carelessly, her attention on nothing in particular.

Normally she kept it close to her at all times. But ever since she had been banished from the convent and struggled through the land, she had found it somewhat of a curse. She could find no shelter, for she held a babe, and to be seen as a single mother was one of the worse things to be seen as. Being able to perform feats of magic only worsened her situation in the eyes of others. Rowena took the wand into her hands; it felt warm under her touch, as though it could sense the magical presence in her, something hard to find in that day and age. She clasped it tightly in her long fingered hands; red sparks flew from the end, along with a couple of doves, which flew higher and higher into the sky before they disappeared from sight into the mingling leaves. Rowena smiled calmly as their song pierced her soul. She looked up at Helga, whose eyes were wide with the spectacle, the baby silent. Their minds were all on an equal wavelength a sort of wordless secret meaning between them, even the babe. That their unison in the glade had sealed their fate for a long time to come, Helga and Rowena both knew what had to be done; now all that was left was to carry it out.

As the two female figures disappeared between the swaying boughs of the trees the two doves shot from their perch in the boughs, soaring across the clear sky, their voices calling with purity that only birdsong can muster. In their song was hope, dreams and the dispelling of persecution, they sung of new beginnings, the end of an era, the beginning of a new one. They followed the footsteps of the two women through the forest, their lungs not ruining a single note of their song as Rowena took the track up to the Ravenclaw castle, and it was then that the two birds were forced to part. One of them nestled down in on a smooth bough, voice finally silenced, the other followed the sounds of footsteps that belonged to the nobleman's daughter, singing the song of hope to guide her along the first steps of her path.


	5. Chapter 5 A Foreign Hero

Clip clop. Clip clop. Clip clop.

The gentle clicking of the horse's hooves echoed slightly on the sparse, rocky hillside. Salazar had been seated upon his chestnut steed for days, weeks, maybe even months? His face had become gaunt through all of the days and nights he had remained undernourished. He had spent his time stealing what he could, begging where possible and pillaging from people that tried to attack him along the roadside. A sword hung at his side from one of his more recent triumphs, it was not a bad blade at all, and it would certainly fare better than the log he used to disarm his attacker with. 

He had no idea where he was to go and what he was going to do, despite being a young man in the prime of his life with the strength and the ability to do almost anything that he could want to do. Yet he had no inclination to find a nice village and settle down and start up a new life, it just didn't occur to him that he could easily live with the pretence in a different village, it seemed to simple to even contemplate after what he had just proven himself capable of. Besides, he could not stand to go back into another community which would just persecute him as they had persecuted his grandmother.

The horse continued trotting doggedly on until they were faced with expansive woodland and the track became dark and winding through the dense trees. Salazar clicked his tongue encouragingly at his steed and it picked up pace once more with a gentle nudging of hid heels. The atmosphere in the woods was a lot more formidable than out in the open air, it was very silence for a place that should hold all manner of creatures. Not a single bird could be heard trilling to the sky, not a rustle came from the undergrowth. Salazar took no notice to the warning signs that would scream to any man familiar with woodlands to turn back if they value their lives. 

The horse continued down the slightly beaten track, meandering beneath the dark tree canopy. It's ears twitched with every slight breath of the wind, the grey flecked nostrils flared irately.

"AAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!"

A heavy body suddenly slammed into Salazar's side, knocking him off of his horse and sending both him and his attacker flying into a heavy patch of brambles. He gasped as the thorns pulled his clothes apart and scratched at his bare flesh, the heavy body clambering off of him. Salazar rapidly struggled to grab either his sword or his wand but found that he had lost his sword somewhere in the undergrowth and his wand was tangled within his clothing. A horrible whinnying from his horse sounded amongst the previously silent trees and Salazar looked up in horror as twenty or so arrows slammed into his steed. Blood seeped from the neck, his eyes rolled wildly as he reared back on his hind legs, whinnying at full pitch. His hooves stamped on the floor as forth sprayed everywhere from his wildly shaking head as he tried to dislodge the arrows that peppered his neck and flanks. Before Salazar could really register what was happening his horse was writhing on the ground and men had emerged seemingly from nowhere.

The body that had slammed into him gave a deep grunt and began to rise from his stomach to join the fray of men that were currently slamming into each other, blades drawn.

Salazar finally found his wand and pointed it at the neck of the man next to him.

"What do you think you are doing!" he shouted.

"Saving your miserable hide!" spat the man angrily, struggling to free his straggly brown hair from the brambles around him. "And if I were you I would throw that stupid twig away and get your blade. You blew our cover, now you may as well prove your worth or we'll all be killed."

Salazar was slightly taken aback by the boldness of the man and hurriedly stuffed his wand into the folds of his torn clothing, feeling stupid. The man shook his head exasperatedly and heaved himself to his feet. Before Salazar could register that he even had a weapon, he had whipped a large axe from his belt and charged into the fray, roaring mightily. Salazar quickly pushed himself to his own feet, rummaging through the brambles and ferns for his own weapon, before quickly darting to join his rescuer.

He leapt across the still twitching form of his horse and immediately plunged his sword into the side of one of whom he assumed was the opposition. In a flash he withdrew the blade and plunged further into the heart of the battle, slashing and parrying as attacks seemed to come from here there and everywhere. He quickly dispatched of two soldiers before being faced with a terrifying monster of a man holding a twirling mace. Before he even had time to think he had ducked, just as the metal flew through the air and made a sickening noise in the person it had struck. Salazar tried not to think too much about how it could so easily have been him, but attacked his would be attacker, adrenalin taking over all of his sense and reason.

The man did not go down without a fight, Salazar slashed downwards at him, which he neatly managed to side step with just a shred of his clothing being caught by the descending blade. Salazar was undeterred and took another stab, quite literally, at the man. This time he was too slow, the monster of a man twirled around him, grabbed both of his arms and twisted them so Salazar was locked within his grip, his own blade sneaking closer and closer to his exposed neck. He pushed and pushed with all of his might to free himself of the much stronger man, but inch by agonising inch the blade got closer to his neck, glistening with the mingled blood of his new found foes.

Thump.

Salazar was suddenly released from the embrace of death as an arrow thudded into the neck of his attacker, spurting his lifeblood onto the both of them. Disgusted, Salazar quickly ducked away and tried to desperately gather some more oxygen into his straining lungs.

Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a figure fleeing into the woods, green cloak streaming out behind him. Still panting heavily, but full of the adrenalin of battle, Salazar pursued him, his blade drawn, his feet nimble across the woodland floor. He managed to quickly gain ground against the large, heavier man and before long he was out of the reach of the rest of the battle, yet he was close enough to make an attack on the fleeing man.

"Don't to this, this is no business of yours," said the man as he finally turned to face Salazar, his chest heaving mightily.

Salazar did not bother with any retorts but leapt at the man, his sword raised above his head, poised to strike. However, the man was a lot more experienced in the art of battle and was too quick for Salazar, he whipped his sword from his scabbard and defended himself against the attack, which sent them both staggering back from the force of the collision. Salazar could barely keep his hand steady as his sword reverberated from the impact and the other man took the open opportunity whilst he could, plunging towards Salazar. Salazar was quick, both not quite quick enough. The blade which could well have gutted him cut a gash in his side that made him stagger from the pain of it. His opponent once again took advantage from the situation and slashed with his sword. This time Salazar was quick enough and the force of the collision sent both of their swords flying from their hands.

Salazar managed to scramble to his feet as his opponent pulled a short dagger from his belt and went to resume his attack. Salazar completely forgot that he had a wand, completely forgot that he could curse the man into oblivion, he completely forgot what he was fighting for in the first place. He saw his own death written on that blade and in his desperation and forgetfulness ran straight at his attacker. This rather odd turn of events brought him the couple of seconds he needed and his fist landed a neat punch straight on the nose of his opponent, warm blood spurting onto his fist. He was roughly thrown back as the man wildly tried to escape and Salazar stumbled to the floor, his cheek scratched by the dagger.

The man grunted mightily as he stabbed at Salazar, cutting deep into the back of his leg causing excruciating spasms of pain to wrack the entirety of Salazar as he desperately tried to get away, the flight or fight instinct suddenly less decisive than when he was wielding a blade. He twirled around alarmingly fast, wrenching the dagger from the grip of his opponent and pulling it out of his own flesh, before staggering back onto his opponent and collapsing upon him, the dagger blade plunging into the chest of his attacker.

Silence.

After a second or so, Salazar found the strength to roll off the body of his defeated opponent and lay spread eagled on the leaf strewn ground. His other sense began to return to him steadily as the effect of the adrenalin began to wear off. He could smell the stench of death and war, he could hear the grunts of men in the distance and the pain of his wounds seemed to have increased tenfold. Sweat poured down his face as he panted hoarsely, his blood slowly staining the leaves upon the floor. He could dimly recognise the feel of a handle in his hand and released the dagger that he had just moments before plunged into the heart of another man. The entirety of what he had done was starting to mix with the many other feelings that battle brought for him. Relief, anger, agony, exhaustion, desperation, achievement, pride, disgust, disappointment in himself, all swirled around him.

"There's another one other there, I told you!"

Salazar panicked as he heard voices rapidly approaching through the gloom, knowing full well that he could not fend off another brutal attack. Before he could even attempt to get away from these savage people a bow was pointed straight at his chest and a leering face appeared above him.

"Cease fire Mason!" bellowed a familiar face. "He's the one from the horse and by God look at what he's done!"

The man that had pushed Salazar from his horse in one heroic dive roughly shoved the man wielding the bow aside and knelt down beside Salazar, inspecting his wounds carefully before addressing his men once more. Salazar's head spun as he tried to push himself up, but a hand pushed him gently down by the shoulder as more and more people appeared.

"Someone go and get some water and some bandages, tonight we bring home a hero of war."

"How long do you reckon he's been out for now?"

Salazar's brow creased slightly as the low murmuring of voices gradually penetrated his thoughts. His eyelids felt as heavy as his limbs, except the latter were a great deal more painful. All he wanted to do was to slip back into the depths of slumber and curl up in the warmth that seemed to have engulfed him. But the voices did not cease their low murmuring and he found himself becoming more and more irate as they continued their discussion, about matters that he had no knowledge of, nor inclination to care. Eventually he found the energy to snap his eyes open and immediately wish that he hadn't.

Above his head was a large candle bracket burning bright and true against the stark contrast of the dark cavern that he was lying within. The scent of sweat with a hint of death was strong upon the air, just a strain of a cooking smell managing to waft here and there. Low groans came from various make shift pallets along the length and width of the cavern, which turned out to be a lavish dining hall. Long, dark tables were pushed up against the walls which were adorned by various tapestries and burning candles. Dotted amongst the beds of the wounded and weak were a mixture of soldiers and serving maids. At the far end of the hall a fire roared in the grate, a few swords sat within their depths, a line of unfortunate men sitting nearby. 

"Would you look at that, the hero of the hour awakens."

Salazar glanced across at the two people he had heard speaking quietly moments before. One of them was the man whom had so unceremoniously knocked Salazar to safety, leaning back against the wall, fiddling with his bushy brown beard. The other was a surely looking man, his shoulders hunched over his hands clasped between his knees, a thoughtful look upon his face.

"You in any pain?" asked the bearded one.

"Just a little sore," replied Salazar honestly.

"Good, cos your turns been and done," chuckled the man merrily, recoiling slightly as harsh screams came from the end of the hall where the fire and iron hot sword blades resided. "Bet you're glad that you don't need your wounds tended to like that," he said grimly.

Salazar nodded silently, trying to block out the screams of agony from the opposite end of the hall. He was desperately trying not to think of the pain that comes with your flesh being burnt back into place by the flat of a sword blade. 

"You seem to have made quite an impression on my men," remarked the surely looking soldier as though he didn't approve of such things. When Salazar said nothing in reply he seemed to take it as a sign of impertinence. 

"You do realise who is speaking to you?" he grunted angrily.

"Actually I have no idea what is happening to me at all," growled Salazar back dangerously. "One minute I'm riding on my horse, the next I have been knocked off by some brute of a man, my horse is dead, I am surrounded by men I do not know and have no idea what to do with myself. Then all of a sudden I am caught up in a battle that is none of my business, I kill a man running from the battle field, I am regarded a hero as I lose consciousness and when I wake up I am being chastised by a man I have never met before for not knowing him!"

The bearded man roared with laughter at the look of hatred and indignation that adorned Salazar's face as he glared at the General of Lord Ravenclaw's army. He did look rather intimidating with the gash on his cheeks and his impassive gray eyes shining under the influence of the light cast by the candle flame.

"Come on General, you have to admit, the guy has either amazing guts or is amazingly stupid."

"In my experience it generally proves to be the latter," grumbled the General grumpily as he settled back on his chair, dropping his issue with Salazar momentarily.

"Either way Lord Ravenclaw wants to see him," reasoned the bearded man.

"Bet 'e don't even know who Lord Ravenclaw is," scoffed the General.

The bearded man looked up at Salazar from the floor, with an amused smile across his face as though he knew that Salazar was going to prove the moody old General wrong. Salazar fidgeted awkwardly beneath his sheets as he shook his head, feeling totally stupid and even more confused by the second. Not only had they not named themselves, they were expecting him to know Lords he had never even heard of in passing.

The soldier's eyebrows leapt up his face in shock, and he was rendered momentarily speechless.

"Well," grunted the General, the first hint of amusement in his voice, "what an interesting meeting _that_ will be."


End file.
